


all that I can to hold tightly onto what’s left in my hand

by orphan_account



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 12:05:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3173290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Racetrack's gambling addiction begins to make itself known</p>
            </blockquote>





	all that I can to hold tightly onto what’s left in my hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Skittery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skittery/gifts).



It’s getting later and later into the night that Race comes back, and he always _does_ , he’s always there and awake with a cigar in his mouth before the dawn’s broken, ready to wake the boys before the circulation bell rings, but Specs is starting to worry.

It isn’t his place to do so, he knows. There’s a certain code of conduct that’s formed in the gaps of their routines, an unspoken law commanding to live and let live, to let each boy manage his own affairs, but the worry persists. Race had been new to the lodging house around the time Specs was, and though they hardly exchange more than a few words per morning to each other nowadays, he likes to think there’s a link between them.

Specs notices things. The other guys seem to have gotten it into their heads that just because his eyesight’s lousy means he’s stopped paying attention, but they’re wrong. He sees lots of things. It’s just that he knows how to keep his mouth shut, which is why he hasn’t pointed out to Jack that ever since Race slunk in last week with a black eye and split lip, he’s been staying out later and later, crawling back during the wee hours of the morning for a moment’s rest before he’s up and working again. And the _work_ he’s doing, it’s enough to break a man’s back. Buying more papes than he can carry, almost, and really it’s no wonder he’s coming back so late, having to work all day getting all of them sold – and he _does_ get them all sold, by hook or by crook.

It don’t take a genius to know what he needs the money for.

Race is restless these days, boyish charm replaced by an early-morning peevishness he never used to have. He’s given up his cigars, for the time being at least, and his fingers drum anxiously against his thighs when they aren’t shuffling a well-worn hand of cards back and forth, back and forth.

And then he practically _lunges_ after Romeo just for knocking into him one evening, tempers running high after a day’s work selling a headline so bad even Race didn’t bother picking up extra, and it’s out of sorts enough to give Jack pause as he’s fixing to leave.

“Hey, how’s about you go out tonight, get some fresh air, huh?” Jack says, and it sounds more like a warning than anything, like he knows something worse might happen if he leaves Race with the others, which is never how things used to be with him.

But Race just rolls his eyes and mumbles “Ain’t got nowhere to go,” so Jack walks over and hauls him up by the back of his shirt.

“Come on,” he says in a voice that’s both gentle and stern, a voice that suggests Race won’t be twisting his way out of this one, not this time. “You can tag along while I go bother Spot, then.”

And that’s all it takes to change the track of the whole conversation. Realization spreads across Race’s features with a dangerous, jack-o’-lantern grin.

“Think them Brooklyn boys would object to a hand of cards?” he asks, and Jack’s chewing the inside of his cheek, clearly debating over the lesser of two evils – leaving his boys to the mercy of Race’s temper, or Race to the mercy of Brooklyn while he’s strapped for cash – and Specs hadn’t planned on doing anything tonight other than lie on his back and listen to Mush and Albert bicker, but he finds himself sitting up, swinging his legs over the side of his bunk.

“Hey, I got a better idea,” he says with forced brightness, like he’s only caught the tail-end of that exchange instead of listening in on all of it.

And then Race’s gaze is fixed on him and he has to look away.

“I was thinkin’ I’d see the show at Medda’s sometime soon,” he says to his feet. “But I never had nobody to go with.”

It’s a flimsy lie, would hardly hold up under scrutiny what with the amount of times Jack visits the theatre each week, but Jack knows an out when he sees one.

“Aw, well what’s say you keep him company then, Race?” Jack suggests, clapping Race on the back.

Race glowers at Jack, but his expression softens when he turns to Specs. He’s always hated being fussed over, but perhaps it’s different coming from someone other than Jack. Or maybe he just doesn’t think of Specs as the kind to say one thing while meaning something else. He wouldn’t be the only one to think that.

“Offer to buy me dinner first, an’ I’ll think on it,” he says, and the grin he offers is a shadow of his best, but it’s there all the same.

~~~~

The soup is too salty, a half-hearted attempt from a cheap establishment to disguise how watered-down it is, but it’s warm and it’s what they can afford. Race loudly voices complaints, all the while eating it anyway, and something akin to relief settles in Specs’s chest at the sight of his companion reverting back to his old nature.

Relief turns to unease when Race steers the conversation toward the show they’ll be seeing that evening.

“Never seen a girl’s bare legs outside of a picture before, huh?” He asks with a smirk.

Heat floods to Specs’s face. He hadn’t much considered what tonight would consist of other than keeping Race out of trouble, and he isn’t prepared for this.

“Truth be told, I, uh, never was one for looking at pictures much neither,” he confides, and Race laughs in such a way that’s both unsettling and exciting.

“Well, now we know why you wanted to go so bad,” he declares.

He’s wrong, of course, but Specs doesn’t say a word.

~~~~

The appeal of vaudeville makes itself apparent to Specs almost immediately, in spite of the fact that he has no intentions whatsoever of staring at anyone’s legs. The glittery costumes are still bewitching, Jack’s sets are more impressive than Specs could have ever imagined, and the music itself is intoxicating.

They’re a little past midway through the show when Race’s knee bumps against his, and Specs waits with bated breath for Race to move his leg away. After what has to have been at least a full minute, Specs realizes he isn’t going to.

Race won’t look at him, but Specs can feel the warmth of his leg through the fabric of his trousers in such a way that correlates directly to the warmth spreading in the pit of his belly.

They make it through one more song before fleeing for the relative privacy of outdoors.

~~~~

Race backs him into a wall the moment they’re a respectable distance away from the theatre, and Specs wonders if they can hear the pounding of his heart all the way across the Brooklyn Bridge.

“So this,” Race breathes against his neck, and Specs shivers, “ _this_ is why you wanted me to come with you so bad, huh?”

And he’s still _wrong_ , just maybe there’s a part of him that thinks he’s almost right, that he can be right on top of being wrong because maybe he’s always watched Race a little more closely than the others, and maybe there was a reason for that. That maybe wanting to protect Race from himself came out of something other than just brotherly concern. So he doesn’t answer, doesn’t know how to answer, just hooks his fingers through Race’s belt loops and hauls him closer until their bodies are pressed flush against each other.

That startles a laugh out of Race, and Specs brings one hand up to cradle the back of Race’s head, bringing their mouths together, wanting to taste.

Nimble fingers trace their way down his chest, scrabbling to undo the buttons of his shirt. Race pulls away to kiss down the line of his neck, down to the exposed area of his chest where his shirt is undone, and Specs groans throatily and twists his fingers into the hair at the nape of Race’s neck.

“Started out tonight,” Race mumbles, still mouthing at the skin below his collarbone, “just wanting to see a nice pair ‘a legs, right? And look at you now,” he says with a breathless laugh.

Specs doesn’t have the words to tell him he’s wrong.


End file.
